


I turned my face away and dreamed about you

by Crowley_Kitten



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1980s, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley First Kiss (Good Omens), Christmas Eve, Christmas Party, Comfort, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mistletoe, Mutual Pining, Non-Consensual Touching, Pining, Rain, implied prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28018791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowley_Kitten/pseuds/Crowley_Kitten
Summary: Crowley has been sent on a Christmas Eve lust assignment. his heart isn't in it.Pairing: Aziraphale/Crowley (anygender presentation)Genre: fluff, humorNSFW: not for this onePrompts: - obliviousness/mutual pining - Mistletoe - attending a holiday partyturned out angstier than I intended, and more focus on the pining, but hope it all wraps up in a happy, fluffy bow at the end.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51





	I turned my face away and dreamed about you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [makeway4thehomosuperior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeway4thehomosuperior/gifts).



December 1982   
24th. December.   
  
  
Crowley was bored. Why, of all demons, did head office have to send HIM to a Christmas party. Oh he knew why HIM, of course. It's not like you could send HASTUR on a lust assignment. That would be doomed to failure. But why a bloody Christmas party?!   
  
There was a tree. There was always a tree. This one was white, spindly, and looked like a fire hazard. It was dripping with long silver threads and a garish selection of baubles, tinsel, flashing lights that should come with an epilepsy warning, Santas, snowmen and badly spray-painted pinecones. Some of the lights had plastic petals. Some were like little Victorian lamps. All were garish. All flashed rapidly. Badly painted small wooden figures, some missing limbs. There were baubles like brightly colouredmirrorballs. Baubles covered in glossy threads, balls of bright cones of coloured foil. There were metallic foil garlands bedecking the ceiling. It was all just so..... mismatched, garish and unbelievably tacky. How was he supposed to perform a seduction here?   
  
How was he supposed to perform a seduction at all? He'd tried to put his foot down. No more seductions. His heart wasn’t in it. It was elsewhere.    
  
He thought back to his most recent visit to the bookshop. To the scent of the small fir tree in the back room. To its shimmering blown glass baubles, to its sparkling and peacefully static fairylights, and the times before when tiny candles had glowed in small metal clips on the branch ends. To the garlands of ivy, sprigs of holly. How had festive celebrations turned from that warm fuzzy glowiness to this fairground cacophony?   
  
The DJ blasted out the latest hits. Various New Romantics. A bit of Ska. Terrible cheese.    
Crowley wasn’t enjoying this party. He’d spotted his target. A low-level politician who, after being seen canoodling with a man, especially one he had to pay for, would have his career ruined and spiral further into his already pretty well-established debauchery.    
  
With a sigh, Crowley decided he’d better get this shitshow on the road. Then a good hot shower to scrub away the sordid deed. Then maybe he would go to the bookshop. Show up with some patisserie and a lame excuse about “Just passing!” Relax into the sofa that fit his sharp bones almost as well as the front seat of the Bentley. To that scent of dust and old paper, and Aziraphale. He wondered what he was doing now. Was he hard at work at his little desk, carefully restoring worn leather and faded parchment, with those cotton gloves, those silly little gold framed glasses resting on his nose, and look of intense concentration on his kind features, nibbling his bottom lip as his brows furrowed with his laser focus.    
  
Or maybe he would be sitting back in his chair, a glass of something decent resting lightly in his elegant, well-kept fingers, music crackling from the old Gramaphone, and a well-loved tome resting on his knees. A being that had a home. Had a place in the world. Content. Soft. Warm. Cozy. Oh, how the angel made him feel so safe. So welcome. He gave Crowley a place where he felt secure. Happy even. The angel drove away his feelings of unworthiness. He could just be himself. Aziraphale wouldn’t judge him. Oh, he knew he SHOULD judge him. He SHOULD turn from him in disgust and cast him away. Any other angel would have done. But not that charmingly fussy, prim little bastard. Crowley shook his head to clear his thoughts. He didn’t know whether thinking of the angel would make the job better or worse.    
  
Crowley stretched, and sloped over to the bar. All long limbs and swinging hips. He was wearing the tightest jeans he could tolerate, knowing his arse would be looking spectacular. He ordered himself a cocktail with a stupid, sexual name, and a pop-up paper umbrella. He could feel the eyes tracing his outline, especially as he dug into his pocket for some cash, knowing the fabric would stretch tighter, drawing those eyes down. humans were so predictable. Made him sick, sometimes. _Justajobjustajobjustajob_. The slimy shit slithered in behind him, in a way that was an insult to snakes everywhere. Crowley's skin crawled when he felt a heavy-handed squeeze of his buttocks. _Justajobjustajobjust_ _..._   
  
“What’s a pretty thing like you doing at a party like this?” He could hear the leer in that smarmy voice. “You working?”    
  
“Might be.” Crowley responded unenthusiastically, not liking the implication of those words.    
  
“I’ll get this one.”    
  
“You think you can buy my body with a cheap cocktail?”    
  
“What’s your price then? I know you have one. And I KNOW I can afford it.” Crowley smiled wickedly.    
  
“Oh, it’s not much. Not much at all. Not something of any value, anyway. It will only cost you your everlasting and immortal soul. A worthless thing by my reckoning.” The sleazy politician grinned unpleasantly.    
  
“Knew you were a cheap tart the second I laid eyes on you.” His hand slid around from his buttocks to palm the front of his jeans. There was no response there, thank fuck! Might make the job difficult though. Crowley downed his cocktail. Gestured for another. “My car is out the back.” The target pressed a couple of tens into his palm. Crowley's lip curled in disdain at how little this man had placed his price at. But a job was a job. The money was irrelevant, really. This man wasn’t the one paying the piper, so to speak. Downing his drink, Crowley followed the man out the back door, to where his BMW sat, shiny and imposing in the car park. His mind raced through options. He had made sure to tip off the paps. He knew there were photographers stationed front and rear of the building, waiting to catch his moment. But at least it was in a car, not a dark alleyway. It gave him enough privacy to use his demonic wiles to get out of the worst part of the job. He almost sagged with relief. Soon this would be over, and he could be in a cab into Soho within the next half hour, maximum.    
  
The target opened the back door, gesturing Crowley inside, with a firm, unwanted slap to his behind as he entered the car. Then he followed him in to the plush, leather lined Hell. Hands wandering. Crowley could smell the taint of sex lingering on the seats. He wasn’t the first. But maybe he could be the last. Crowley took charge, pinning him down and removing his sunglasses, staring deep into the watery, pale grey, piggish eyes.    
  
“Now, you probably think we are going to have sex. When you leave this car, that’s what you will think happened. You aren’t going to notice the camera flashes when you and I leave and go back to the party. You will remember a rather dull fumble in the back seat. We have already negotiated a price, your soul, as agreed, is now the property of Hell, yes?”   
  
“Yes”    
  
“Rxcellent. Right. In a few minutes I’ll be on my way. In the meantime, I’m just going to bounce a bit, give those paps out there a show.” Crowley did exactly that. After a few minutes, he set his clothes into a state of disarray, and took out the notes. Replaced his sunglasses, and turned back to his companion. “Right then. I’m off. The deed was done. It was uninspiring, but worth the rather insulting pittance you thought you’d pay me. Right?”    
  
“Yes.....um.....thank you...” The man sounded confused. Crowley unfolded his long limbs from the car, making a great show of tidying his rumpled clothes, of counting the notes, putting them in his pocket, as cameras in his peripheral vision flashed. He smiled. The job was done, with minimal humiliation or degradation. He could get to the bookshop and drink away the memory of those hands on him before two shakes of a snake's tail.    
  
  
  
Aziraphale was sat beside the little fireplace, admiring the sparkle of the lights on his little tree. his mind was wandering over the millennia. He remembered the Christ child, although, of course, this wasn’t the time of year he was born. He remembered his mother, a frail, slight, child of a woman. Meek and afraid. Her dark skin and chestnut eyes. He remembered the carpenter. A good man who had been betrothed to her before her first blood. He was kind. Not especially bright. He had been surprised by the pregnancy, before the marriage, but he stood by his promise to the young woman. There was a great deal of affection between them, and, as Aziraphale had expected then, it did grow over time to a genuine love. Both for her and the child he didn’t create. He raised the boy as his own. He supported his young wife. He was a genuine, good man. And there were few enough of those around.    
  
And the Christ child himself, what a bright and inquisitive little thing he was! He had turned a blind eye when, as he grew, he and the other children would run laughing through the village, where often their games would end near the river. There was a woman there, with long, red ringlets and unearthly golden eyes. She had a musical laugh, and was easily led to playfulness. On those days that were hot and lazy, often the children would comb and braid her hair, its colour being so novel in that part of the world. They had never seen hair the colour of fire and blood before.    
  
Many in the village shunned her, but the children would always seek her out, for her easy smile and kind words. Aziraphale had tried very hard NOT to seek her out. Her angular features, her imposing height, her strange feet that few noticed had pale iridescent scales around the arch and ankles.    
  
He had spent so long avoiding the serpent. Avoiding the hypnotic pull of those golden eyes. The surly comebacks that induced both rage and excitement.    
  
He remembered watching the Christ child die, feeling more layers of his fragile and worn faith flake away. Such a sweet, kind boy, to end his life like this. This could not be right, it couldn’t. And there was Crowley, at his side. Her presence strangely comforting. Gabriel had checked in with him later that day, demanding paperwork reporting on the “incident” as he called it. He tried to pull his mind back to the here and now. He wondered where his adversary was tonight. He MISSED him. He hated to admit it. He should not miss the demon. But it was Christmas Eve, and it was a time when he so keenly felt alone on this little planet, much as he loved it. He pondered whether to attend a midnight mass, but really, his heart wasn’t in it. And if he was there, then the demon couldn’t follow. He set a small radio to carols on Radio Four, and tried to relax and enjoy his mince pie and glass of very good port, rich and delicious, like a Christmas cake.    
  
The rain drummed on the old glass of the windows. No chance of a white Christmas then. He pulled his soft housecoat closer around him and dived back into the small book in his hands. Smiling warmly at the descriptions of the Ghost of Christmas Present. Of course, when that WAS the present, many would not have even dreamed of the meagre feast the Cratchits enjoyed. The Children of Men, Ignorance and Want were still very much here in this world. Oh, he had done his best to ease the burden of those hungry bellies, sunken eyes, hopeless lives...

Well, as usual, Christmas Eve was making him melancholy.    
  
Over the rain, he heard a fist pounding on the front door of the shop. He made his way down the swirling staircase and saw the flash of pale skin and rain battered dark red hair through the glass.    
  
“Crowley?!” he ran to the door, unlocking it to reveal the bedraggled, storm-soaked demon on his doorstep. Without thinking he tugged at the chilled fingers, bringing him in. Moments later he had the drenched jacket off him, and a fluffy, warm towel he was rubbing vigorously on his dear friend, as Crowley scrubbed at his dripping hair with another. “Come in. Sit by the fire. Get warm. What on EARTH has happened, my dear?”   
  
The demons teeth were chattering violently, he trembled like a small Earthquake. Aziraphale summoned another soft, fluffy dressing gown from his airing cupboard, demanding the demon remove his wet things and wear this instead. He wouldn’t even peek. Crowley gratefully pulled the soft fabric over his damp, goosebumped skin.    
  
“Come on. I have a fire upstairs. We'll get you warmed up. And I have port and mince pies. I was settling in for the evening. You are more than welcome to join me, dear.” Up in the small, cluttered, cozy flat, Crowley folded into a chesterfield sofa, while Aziraphale sat close by, pushing a tumbler of warmed port into his stiff, chilled fingers. With shaking hands, Crowley downed the comforting tipple. Aziraphale massaged his chilled digits back to life. “Better?” Crowley nodded weakly, hoping the Angel wouldn’t notice that it wasn’t just rain damping his cheeks. “Did something happen? You seem upset, my dear friend.” Crowley shook his head, too violently. “Something DID happen.” Aziraphale insisted. “You don’t have to tell me, dear boy. You don’t have to tell me anything. Just......let me help you find your peace again, if I can.”   
  
Crowley sagged, exhausted and broken, as the angel pulled his unresisting body closer, holding him close against his soft, warm body. Sobs of relief and suppressed horror racked his narrow ribcage, as he submitted to the tender stroke of those soft fingers through his hair.    
  
As the tears subsided, Crowley looked up from Aziraphales lap, to that concerned, sweet face. To the halo of white gold curls. Beyond that, even, to the green and white of the bundle of green leaves and white berries hanging above.    
  
“ ’zirrrphale” Crowley slurred out, “Look up” The blue eyes darted upwards, as if he didn’t realise the parasitic plant hung in his own home.    
  
“Crowley.....?”   
  
The demon sat, bringing his face level with the angels. For a moment, they stilled, golden eyes and sea storm blue green eyes locked together, over parted, pink lips and heaving breaths.   
  
In the next moment, their lips touched, and the universe seemed to rearrange around a new point of orbit, as they melted each to the other. A kiss full of the longing of millennia. 


End file.
